"Let's go to Barcelona," suggested Roger a day or two after the circus.

"What's Barcelona?" questioned Ethel Brown.

"Don't you remember Grandmother told us about the fishing village on Lake Erie when we were coming over on the trolley?"

"Helen remembers that because there is some history about it," laughed Ethel. "I know she'll vote for Barcelona."

"I would—I'm crazy to see it—only it seems as if we ought to wait for Uncle Richard to come so that he can go with us."

Ethel Blue's eyes beamed affectionately at her cousin.

"He would like it, wouldn't he?" she said, smiling back.

"Let's go to Panama Rocks, instead," suggested Ethel Brown.

"What are Panama Rocks?" inquired Mrs. Morton.

"The strangest collection of rocks you ever saw, all jumbled together and cleft into miniature canyons. They're about ten miles from here."

"Oh, Daddy would love to see those," cried Ethel Blue so anxiously that no one could help laughing.

"Don't be worried, my dear. We'll save all the very nicest picnics for your father," decided Mr. Emerson. "We'll just go across the lake. There's a place over there where we can make a fire without getting into trouble, and we can have a hot luncheon and take a swim and have a good time even if we aren't out of sight of the Miller Bell Tower."

Ethel Blue's face brightened.

"How do we get there?" she asked.

"By motor boat."

"Then can't we trail a rowboat so Roger can give me a lesson in rowing? I shall be ashamed to tell Daddy that I haven't learned all summer."

"Good work," cried Roger. "I'll hitch a light one on behind and I'll guarantee that before you come back you'll know all you need to to pull it. You won't need anything afterwards except practice."

"And perhaps a little cold cream," commented Helen drily.

It was the following Wednesday before a time could be found that would interfere with no one's plans. On that morning the entire Morton-Emerson family, including Mary, boarded the launch, engineered by Jo Sampson, whose employers, the Springers, had been called home before the season ended. It did not take long to speed across to the other side of the lake and the party was soon near enough to the shore to recognize objects at which they had been looking all summer from a distance.

"Those trees aren't near the farmhouse at all! I thought they were right side of it!"

"The trees in the orchard are full grown. They seem like mere babies from the other shore!"

"And the barn is a long way from the house! Well, well!"

It was a glorious day with a breeze that made it no burden to carry the baskets up the slope to the shelter where the materials for making a fire were awaiting them. Jo and Roger arranged everything in places convenient for the cooks and then Jo went to the farmhouse to see if he could find fresh butter and sweet apples. Grandfather and Grandmother strolled off on a botanizing trip; Mary, who was to have a holiday from any kitchen duties, wandered into the woods with Helen and Dicky.

"Here's a good opportunity for you to give the Ethels their rowing lesson, Roger," suggested Mrs. Morton. "Teach them the main points before luncheon and perhaps they can do a little practicing in the afternoon."

"But you'll be all alone here," objected Roger.

"I shall be glad to be quiet here for a while. It won't be for long; some one is sure to come back in a few minutes."

So Roger and the girls went to the water's edge and the girls stood on the narrow beach while Roger untied the rowboat from the stern of the motor-boat and ran it up on the shore.

"You must learn to get in without being helped," he insisted, "because you'll have to do it lots of times when there isn't any one around to give you a hand. The unbreakable rule is, Step in the middle of the boat. If you step on the side you're going to tip it and then you'll have a picnic sure enough and perhaps two drowned pic-a-ninnies."

"Pic-a-nothing!" retorted Ethel Brown. "We don't care if we do upset. We can swim."

"Clothes and shoes and all? I wouldn't risk it just yet if I were you. Now, then, right in the middle. That's it. Ethel Brown on the seat nearest the stern and Ethel Blue on the other."

Roger pushed off with a mighty shove and crept carefully down the boat, steadying himself by a hand on each girl's shoulder as he passed. He seated himself in the stern.

"Which way are you going, goose?" he inquired fraternally of Ethel Brown. "Sit facing me. It's a funny thing a sailor's daughter doesn't know that."

"Now, Roger, if you're going to tease I'll get some one else to teach me."

"I won't tease you. Don't stand up to turn around; when you make a mistake like that, squirm around on your seat. Always keep as nearly as possible in the center of the boat. What you want to remember is never to give the boat a chance to tip."

"There are only two oars here."

"One oar apiece is enough to begin with. Put yours out on the left side of the boat, looking forward, Ethel Brown. That's the port side. Look out!" for Ethel Brown thrust out her oar with a circular sweep that would have given Roger a smart blow on the ear if he had not ducked with great agility.

"Put yours out on the starboard side, Ethel Blue," he went on when he recovered himself. "That's the right hand side as you face the direction you are going. Secretary Daniels has changed 'port' and 'starboard' in the navy to 'left' and 'right,' but you might as well learn the old terms."

"Starboard, right; port, left; starboard, right; port, left," repeated the Ethels in chorus, as Ethel Blue brought her oar into place by raising it straight in the air, a movement which brought a "Good" from Roger.

"Ethel Brown is stroke."

"Why is she?" demanded Ethel Blue.

"Because she happens to sit nearest the stern where all the other oarsmen—meaning you—can see her. The stroke oar sets the stroke for the other rowers."

"When I go fast you must go fast, Ethel Blue."

"You can't go too fast for me," returned Ethel Blue smartly. "Have I got a name?"

"You're the bow oar. Now, then, ladies, pay attention to me. Do you see that piece of wood fitting in notches nailed across the floor of the boat? That is called a stretcher and you brace your feet against it."

"Perhaps you can, but I can hardly reach it with my toes."

"Move it up to the closest notch, then. That's the idea. Now put one hand on the handle of your oar and the other hand a few inches away from it on the thick part."

"So?"

"So. You're ready now to begin to row. Push your arms forward as far as they will go and let your body go forward, too. That gives you a longer reach and a purchase on the pull back, you see. Bear down a little on the oar, enough to raise it just above the water. When you get the hang of this you can learn how to turn the blade flat so as not to catch the wind or choppy waves. That's called 'feathering'; but we won't try that now."

"When I push the handle of my oar forward the blade goes backward," said Ethel Blue.

"Correct! Observant young woman! When you've pushed it as far as you can, let it go into the water just enough to cover it—no, don't plunge it way in, Ethel Blue! Don't you see you can't pull it if you have such a mass of water resisting you? Get your oar under water, Ethel Brown. If you don't catch the water at all you 'catch a crab'—just so," he chuckled as Ethel Brown gave her oar a vigorous pull through empty air and fell backward off the seat. "Hurt yourself, old girl? Here, grab root," and he extended a helping hand.

"Get these few motions right and you have the whole groundwork of rowing," went on Roger. "Forward, dip, pull, lift; forward, dip, pull, lift; forward, dip, pull, lift. Keep that up and you have the thing done. One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four."

The new crew pulled vigorously for some distance until Roger commanded a rest.

"Pull your oar in way across the boat and push it down until the handle catches in the ribs of the opposite side," he directed, "or turn the blade toward the bow and run the handle under the seat before you. Then it won't slip out of the rowlock and sail off, leaving you to wait until somebody happens along to pick you up. You might have to wait some time."

"How are we going to turn round?" Ethel Brown asked when they were rested.

"Pull one oar and the boat will turn away from the side of that oar. You pull, Ethel Blue. See it turn?"

"It's mighty slow work," puffed Ethel Blue.

"And a huge big circle you're making," laughed Roger. "Ethel Brown can help you by backing water."

"How do I do that?"

"It's the exact opposite of regular pulling. That is, dip your oar into the water first and then push your arms and body forward. Do you see? That makes the boat go stern first instead of bow first. Here's your count; dip, push, lift, pull; dip, push, lift, pull."

The two girls tried it together and the boat soon was going backward as fast as they had previously made it go forward.

"Now we'll try this turning around business again," directed Roger. "Ethel Blue will row the regular way; that will turn the boat in a wide circle as we saw. Ethel Brown will back water at the same time. That will make the boat turn a much smaller circle, and in a minute we'll lay our course for the shore. Ready? One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Now stop backing water, Ethel Brown, and row ahead. One, two, three, four," counted Roger patiently until the bow grated on the pebbles.

"That's enough for to-day," he decided. "You mustn't get so tired out that you won't want to have another go at it to-morrow. Remember, step in the middle of the boat and way out over the side. There you are," and he walked away toward the grove of trees where he had left his mother, whistling loudly and followed by the Ethels' cheerful "Thank you."

"It makes you hungry," commented Ethel Brown. "I believe I'll go and see if there are any signs of luncheon."

"I'll be there in a little while. I think I'll rest under that tree over there for a few minutes."

Ethel Blue was more tired than she realized, and, when she had made herself comfortable, curled up under an oak that was separated from the landing by a narrow point of land and some tall sedges, she fell sound asleep.

It was perhaps half an hour later that she roused sharply at some sound that pierced her dreams. As she came to herself another scream brought her to her feet.

"Dicky!" she gasped. "Where?"

She ran toward the landing, but there was no sign of him. The sound had seemed nearer to her tree she thought as she dashed back to her napping spot, but she had been so sleepy that she could not tell whether it came from the bushes behind her or from the beach.

The beach? The water? Was Dicky in the water? She flew to the water's edge and strained out over the tiny waves that lapped gently in from a steamer that had gone down the lake five minutes before.

There it was again—that scream. And there was Dicky's yellow head bobbing up for an instant and there was his hand thrown into the air.

In a second Ethel had slipped off her skirt and her shoes and was running into the water in her bloomers. It could not be very deep where Dicky was, just beyond the tip of the point. The sedge grass must have thrown him down when he started to wade. How it happened flashed into Ethel's mind as clearly as if she had seen it and all the time she was wading out as fast as she could go. Even now it was only a trifle above her knees; if Dicky could only get his footing he would be all right—and as she thought it, her own feet slipped from under her and she fell down a steep under-water bank sloping sharply away from the point.

This was the reason then. But though startled she was cool and fell at once into an easy swimming stroke. Her middy blouse hampered her but not seriously. It needed only a few strokes to reach the eddy made by Dicky's struggle. She could see him clearly and she seized him by the back of his rompers. He made no resistance, poor little man. All the struggle had gone out of him when she lifted him to the surface.

The point was nearer than the beach and a few strokes brought her to it with her limp burden. The child was a slender little chap but he was a heavy armful for a girl of thirteen and Ethel tugged herself out of breath before she brought him high up on dry land.

"What was the first thing Roger said?" she asked herself, and instantly remembered that she must turn Dicky on to his face to let the water run out of his throat. She bent his limp arm under his forehead and then left him for a second while she ran for her skirt to roll up under his chest. As she ran she tried to scream, but only a faint squeak came from her lips.

As she flew back she rolled the skirt into a bundle. The child still showed no signs of breathing and she copied Roger's next move on that long ago day when she had been his subject. Thrusting the roll under Dicky's chest to raise his body from the ground and then kneeling beside him she pulled him on to his side and then let him fall forward again on to his face, counting "one, two, three, four," slowly for each motion.

Her arms ached cruelly as she tugged and tugged again at Dicky's little rolling body. Wouldn't anybody ever come? Over and over she tried to scream, but she had only breath enough to keep on pulling. She was counting "One, two, three, four," silently now.

At last, at last, came a flicker of Dicky's eyelid and a whimper from his mouth. Ethel worked on harder and harder. Dicky grew heavier and heavier, but she saw dimly through her own half-shut eyes that he was opening his and that his face was puckering for one of the yells that only Dicky Morton could give.

"You let me alone, Ethel Blue," he whispered savagely, and then she lost sight of the water and the sedge grass and her weary arms fell at her sides.

When she opened her eyes again she found a heavy coat thrown around her and a face that she had not seen for a very long time, smiling down into hers—a face that she never forgot, the face that flashed before her every night when she said her prayers.

"My little girl!" Captain Morton was saying soothingly as he rocked her in his arms; "my brave little girl!"

His brave little girl!

"Dicky?" Ethel murmured, looking up at her father.

"He's all right, dear. Aunt Marion has taken him to the fire."

Then Ethel leaned her face against her father's shoulder and lay without stirring, utterly content.